THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST
by later2nite
Summary: Justin's journey, written in his POV. Time frame fluctuates between 3 distinct periods in his life: his childhood, his years in NYC, and the present. This will be a multi-chaptered work.
1. Chapter 1

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - PROLOGUE

"Brian, you're destroying my flow." You utter the words without turning your head. Lengthening the swath of indigo until it matches the one in your dream, striving for unattainable perfection is as necessary as breathing. Some days it merely translates into motivation to drag your ass out of bed; other days it's an all-consuming passion to convert the hues on your palette into a fragment of yourself on the canvas. Either way, it's your oxygen. You drink it in. It fuels you to imagine, to create, perhaps to touch another human being.

"Your flow?" He's in no mood. "That's original. I'm destroying your flow. It's two in the goddamned morning, Justin. You and your flow should be be in bed. Blowing me."

You'll blow him into oblivion when you get to a stopping point, but you're not there yet so he feels neglected. You suspect he's jealous. Jealous of a painting. You'd laugh if you weren't preoccupied with mixing a touch of ash gray into the crimson.

You don't stop blending until you see the color of despair.

. . .

You're struck by the vitality of a city brimming with humanity the moment your plane touches down - a hunger you'd never seen in Pittsburgh or L.A. Focused on your new endeavor with boundless energy, it exhilarates you, the most significant lesson you'd learned at PIFA ever forefront in your mind: Uplifting art arises from suffering. You figure you've got a lock on that department, armed with enough resources to make art so uplifting it'll float away if you don't bolt it down. You're going to choreograph a ball, orchestrate a melody, direct an epic film.

But first you've got to find your way to the East Village. You dig in your pocket for the name and number of Daphne's friend she scribbled down for you that last time you'd seen her.

. . .

"POOR IS THE PUPIL WHO DOES NOT SURPASS HIS MASTER." - LEONARDO da VINCI

You know you're meant for bigger and better things when your preschool teacher calls your parents in for a talk. "I'm afraid we have a problem, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. Justin doesn't seem to be interested in anything other than finger painting."

Your fascination with color is fun, children on their way to school every morning in their vibrant snowsuits catching your eye. Thinking they look like big huggable jelly beans, you giggle.

You guard your first box of 64 Crayola crayons with your life, placing it safely under your pillow after you fold back the top and admire the variety of slender sticks at your fingertips for at least twenty minutes. Your mom buys you tablets of blank white paper as your coloring books are mostly ignored, proud of the fact that you much prefer to draw your own pictures.

When you hear your parents arguing in the kitchen, your dad's yanking your masterpieces off the fridge. "Why can't he go outside and play ball with the other kids, Jen? Stop encouraging him to sit in the house and draw all day!"

"Put those back up." Your mom affixes them under their magnets again, exactly where they'd been. "Justin made them, and I want to see them when I walk in here."

Your mom is your hero.

. . .

You rinse your brushes and wipe off your palette knife around 2:45 a.m. You've always been the most productive late at night, thankful for the indulgence of sleeping as long as you please after Brian leaves for the office each day. Taking one more look at the canvas near the corner of your attic studio, you cast it from your thoughts and head down Britin's creaky stairs to your second floor bedroom. You know your husband appreciates you shrugging off the mind-set you inhabit when you work on that one before you hit the sheets.

You strip in your bathroom and wash your hands in the basin, leaving your paint-stained clothes on the floor and flipping off the TV on your way to bed.

"I was watching that," you hear Brian mumble when you crawl in, scooping you half onto his chest.

His light snores had been filling the room ten seconds earlier, but you're used to his lies. "Through your eyelids?" You kiss his mouth and throw your leg over his.

Blowing him into oblivion at the crack of dawn, you lick your lips and settle in for a little more shut-eye while he heaves his breath in and out. "Wake me when you get it up again, old man. Don't think you're going anywhere till you fuck me."

"Hey, you're pushing thirty, Sunshine. That pretty face of yours is gonna age like Robert Redford's did if you don't start keeping some decent hours. Roll over."

You're not surprised when he proceeds to rim and ram you as if he were a teenager again, your seemingly offhand remark anything but. Curling up under the comforter, you don't intend to budge until noon, gawking at your partner's still-perfect backside as he shuffles into the shower. "Brian?" you murmur just before you drift back to sleep. "Bring ice cream home tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER ONE

Arriving at your destination much later than you should have - thanks to confusing subway and bus routes through unfamiliar territory - you pray to fuck you've finally found the place where you can crash. You're still excited beyond belief about the new path you're on, yet you could really use some sleep before rolling up your sleeves and tackling those goals of yours. Letting out a heavy sigh, you compare the building's address with that on the crumpled paper in your hand, only hoping you're not waking Daphne's friend when you ring the buzzer for 317. He'd been jovial enough on the phone after your plane had landed, directing you to his little corner of the world and assuring you that getting there was easy, but that had been more than two hours earlier.

It's an unexpected female voice that greets you, coaxing you from images of fluffy pillows, warm duvets, and Brian's body wrapped around yours. "Yes?" it calls through the panel, one of the grunge bands whose popularity soared during your grade school years amped up in the background.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry," you mutter. "I must have the wrong apartment number." You drop your duffel bag to your feet and reach into your pocket. Rechecking Daphne's scrawl, you read 317 once again.

"Justin?"

Your head pops up. "Yes, I'm Justin. Is Josh there?" Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you scramble into the building when the door unlatches. The elevator's seen better days, you think, hoping it gets you to the third floor safely.

You can't mistake the door you're looking for, finally placing Kurt Cobain's guttural delivery of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as it blasts from behind it into the hall. When it swings open on your third knock, an attractive, aging hippie stands smiling at you. Well, you guess by her attire you've come face-to-face with a real live hippie. The only reference you have to go by is ancient footage you've seen of Woodstock. The pungent aroma of weed wafting up your nostrils supports your theory. "There you are! We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost!" Her smile widens when she checks you out from head to toe - subtlety not included.

"I, um, didn't really know where I was going." You swipe a hand through your hair and glance at your watch. "Josh said it was easy to find, but . . . uh . . . is he here?"

"He'll be back in a few. He's out on a beer run." She waves the bottle in her hand at you and winks. "Well, you gonna stand there all night, or you gonna come in?"

"Thanks." You still have no idea whom you're talking to. Taking in the modest space when she flits off to the kitchen, you unload your bag on a chair and graciously accept the last beer when she hands it to you. You're so tired that you gladly fall to the sofa when she pulls you down with her.

"So, you're from Pittsburgh, huh?" Kicking her shoes off, she gets comfy at your side. "Too bad it's 2005, though. The East Village art scene moved out twenty years ago." She shakes her head at your obvious misfortune, her knee touching yours when she lays her hand on your thigh.

"I just need somewhere to stay until I, uh, get my bearings and figure out the city. My best friend knows Josh from college." She's a few years younger than your mom, you surmise, watching her fingers on your leg. You'd kill to lie down before the sun rises, but the couch will probably double as your bunk - and she seems to be firmly planted on it. Stifling a gaping yawn, you struggle to sound engaged, missing your side of Brian's bed with a passion.

Relighting the joint from the ashtray on the coffee table, she nods toward the CD player in the corner. "Love Nirvana, don't you? Crying shame about Cobain, don't you think?" She takes a hit first then extends her hand toward you.

You think back. Way back. "I was like eleven when he died. No, that's okay." The last thing you want to do is get high with someone you don't know. You wonder how fucking far Josh had to go to find beer.

. . .

Your eyes are already acclimated to the darkness when you peer into your studio, the half-moon shining through the skylights all the illumination you need. Slipping out of Brian's arms without waking him, you were drawn up to your third floor lair by your recurring dream, having concluded long ago that fighting the haunting vision never works. You've learned to let it lead, to give yourself over to its power.

Locking yourself in, the half-finished painting near the corner calls out from under its cover. You sense the familiar transition you go through as it engulfs your brain and your soul, hesitantly approaching the easel. You'll step out of the negative thoughts and feelings later, after they've served their purpose. For the time being, you need them. You feed off them.

Unveiling the work in progress, you switch on the overhead light and regard it with a critical eye. The perspective's a little off, but first you need to mix the pigments to produce the shade you'd seen in your sleep before it fades from view. Selecting three jars from the cabinet, you set about creating the color of hopelessness.

Soon burying yourself in your work, time has no meaning, your memories coming to life in vivid shape and taking over. Each stroke of your brush becomes a world of expression rooted in their hold on your mind. Staring back at you from the canvas, they shout out their desperation as you slide further and further into their depths, losing pieces of yourself along the way.

. . .

"Dad! Dad! Guess what?" You scamper out to the driveway when your father arrives home from the store, Taylor Electronics a booming business that's kept your family in the lap of luxury since a few short years after its opening. Clutching the spelling test you'd aced earlier that afternoon in your little hand, you can't wait to show it to him.

"What have you got there?" Ruffling your hair, he takes it from you and smiles pridefully at the large red A+ marked on the top. "This is wonderful, Justin! Mrs. Baker even gave you a gold star. Did Mom see it?" He grabs his briefcase from the car before the two of you head into the house.

"Yeah. She doesn't feel good. I don't like that baby in her tummy. It's making her throw up and go to bed and be sad."

"You mean she doesn't feel well," your dad corrects you, loosening his tie as he walks into the kitchen with you glued to his side. "Why don't we surprise her and fix dinner tonight? You want to help me? I bet that'll make her happy." Tacking your perfect spelling test to the bulletin board right next to the grocery list, he beams down at your towheaded, six-year-old self. "I'm proud of you, son. I think we should use this board to display every 'A' you bring home this year. What do you think?"

You think there won't be enough room for the grocery list before long, First Grade the biggest piece of cake you've ever dealt with. "Sure, Dad!" you laugh. "I'll be right back!" He doesn't know your backpack is bursting with homework papers and tests adorned with Mrs. Baker's felt-tipped red A's and gold star stickers.

"Just be quiet up there," he warns as you climb the staircase to your room. "Your mom will feel better after she wakes up."

You still don't like the unseen baby that causes her to vomit and sleep all the time.

. . .

"Jesus, Aunt Meg! What the hell are you doing?" Snapping your head toward the door, you catch the horrified look on your new roommate's face when he gets home and drops a six-pack on the counter. Apparently aghast at his overly-forward relative, who's spent the past thirty minutes shedding every inhibition she ever possessed, he glares at her. "Button up your shirt!"

"Joshua . . . "

"And open some windows!" Airing out his apartment, he finally makes it over to you and shakes your hand. "Hi. I'm Josh. Sorry about this."

"Justin," you say as you stand, more than a tad relieved to be rescued from the awkward situation.

Spying your bag on the chair, he turns back to his aunt. "You didn't even show him his room? I'm sure Justin's exhausted! God, I'm sorry," he apologizes to you again. "My brother moved out last week, so you're in luck. It's small, but there's an empty bedroom."

"Great," you smile. "I thought I might be sleeping on your sofa until I find a place of my own."

Meg scouts around for her shoes, bummed that the party's over. "We were just getting to know each other, weren't we, Justin?" she tries to coerce you to her side. "I was behaving myself. Tell him."

"Right . . ." Collecting her paraphernalia from the coffee table and depositing it in her hands, Josh shoots you another regretful look as he ushers her to the door. "Come on. I'll help you home. Say good night, Aunt Meg."

"You're no fun, Joshua. See you boys later."

You begin to understand that omen for what it is when he walks her across the hall and waits while she fumbles with the key to her own apartment. "This is perfect," you tell him when he returns and shows you around. Thanking him again and promising to be more human in the morning, you hit the mattress in your tiny room the second he makes himself scarce.

Maybe departing Pittsburgh at 10 p.m. for parts unknown hadn't been the most well thought-out plan in the history of plans, but you'd booked the last flight of the day for a reason. Wanting to prolong the emotional good-byes with Brian, you muster a sleepy grin as you think of him, your ass still thanking you for the proper send-off he'd made sure you received.

. . .

"THE EMOTIONS ARE SOMETIMES SO STRONG THAT I WORK WITHOUT KNOWING IT. THE STROKES COME LIKE SPEECH." - VINCENT VAN GOGH

You don't know how long he's been knocking and calling your name when you vaguely tune in, the muddy din outside the attic somehow bringing you back. "Open the door, Justin!" you gradually register his command, the alarm in his tone tipping you off to what you'll find when you do.

Setting your palette on the work table, you drag your knuckles across your tear-stained cheek and rub your forehead, willing yourself to get it together. After covering the half-finished painting once again with its snow white sheet, you back away from it slowly, Brian's impatience robbing you of your normal recovery time. When you open the door, you avoid his gaze at all costs. "Let me just rinse . . ."

"What the fuck, Justin?" You don't finish your thought because Brian's are too urgent. "The door was locked. Didn't you hear me? It's three-thirty. I woke up alone, and . . . Hey, look at me." He takes your face in his hands. "What is it?"

"Go back to bed, Brian."

You see in his eyes that's the one thing he has no intention of doing. "Hey," he repeats, this time infusing it with all the care and affection for you that he embodies. "Talk to me. What is it?" Fully embracing you against his chest, his soft breath tickles the side of your neck.

If you hadn't loved this man with all your heart for almost half your life, you'd be embarrassed by the sniffle that escapes you with a mind of its own and a trail of snot staining the front of his tee shirt where your nose is pressed. You release your brushes and knives from your grip when he reaches for them, slumping to the floor in a heap as he walks over and turns on the water in the sink. The heels of your hands are still digging into your eye sockets as he carefully cleans your instruments and lays them out to dry, only falling to your sides when you feel your husband's lanky body lowering down beside you.

"It's okay," you hear him whisper. Gathering as much of your drooping form as he's able to hold, his chin settles squarely on top of your head. "I'm here."


	3. Chapter 3

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER TWO

You need . . . well, everything. You'd crammed your duffel bag with clothes, toiletries, sketchbook, and pencils, which seem to be roughly three days' worth of things when you empty them into a drawer the following morning. Ideal if you'd been going on a long weekend. Fortunately, before you left you'd packed linen, blankets, pillows, and towels in two large boxes and the rest of your clothes, computer, and art supplies in several more. You'd sent them to yourself at your New York address, figuring that was the easiest way to relocate your life. By early evening, you're pacing and glancing out the window every ten minutes to check for the UPS truck, having paid through the nose for your shipment to arrive eighteen hours after you did.

You've used up half your sketchbook drawing detailed likenesses of Brian from memory and random objects in front of you by the time you're reunited with your belongings, the driver wheeling stack after stack of boxes up to your door on a dolly and then disappearing as soon as he obtains your signature. Scooting them inside one at a time, you look forward to sleeping on your own sheets and having more than three shirts to choose from the next time you get dressed.

"Looks like Christmas. Either that, or the building's been converted into mini storage units while I've been out earning a living."

You're partially hidden behind cardboard when you hear your neighbor's friendly voice. "Meg. Hi." Stepping out of obscurity, you scratch the side of your head and smile at her. "My stuff finally got here. Oh, sorry."

"Big move, isn't it?" she says, waiting while you clear a path to her door. Unlocking it, she turns to face you again, something obviously weighing on her mind. "Justin, I want to apologize for last night. I don't usually drink that much. I didn't mean to . . . act so . . ."

"Hey, no problem. Don't worry about it." Your country club manners are showing as you push a couple more boxes out of the middle of the hall and into your apartment, giving her a pass on the bizarre scenario she'd put you in just feeling like the right thing to do.

She's still there when you come back out. "Why don't you be my guest for dinner tonight? Let me make it up to you. I've had beef stew cooking in the Crock-Pot all day." You notice that her flower child look's been slightly upgraded to boho-chic for work, the weirdness of your first meeting evaporating away. "Joshua used to have dinner with me all the time before he started working nights."

Although your first instinct is to politely decline, the thought of homemade beef stew makes your mouth water. Hanging around all day for the UPS guy had prevented you from venturing out to find food, and you'd felt funny about helping yourself to Josh's sparsely stocked pantry. "Well . . ." You raise one shoulder and scratch at the side of your head again. "I guess . . ."

"Good! How about a half an hour from now? Does that work for you?"

"Yeah, sure," you laugh. "Thanks, Meg." Grabbing a pullover out of the last box you bring inside, you clean up in the bathroom and change into it. With twenty minutes to kill before you can walk across the hall to a hot meal, you break down and eat a few crackers to tame your growling stomach. You know you'll replace them in the morning, a trip to the nearest grocery store at the very top of your to-do list.

. . .

Carrying a mug of steaming coffee up to the attic at 11:45 a.m., you finally spur your butt into gear. The quality time you'd spent in your sunny kitchen with your bacon and eggs and the morning paper had been just what you'd needed, but after placating Lindsey and her gentle nagging, you suppose taking the entire day off is out.

"Are you still thinking four pieces?" she'd inquired in that saccharine-sweet timbre she reserves for prodding you into production. "Sidney's so excited. He's cleared the west wall for you."

You'd rolled your eyes at the phone. Inking the deal with Sidney Bloom to show exclusively at his Pittsburgh gallery had instantly turned you into royalty as far as he and Lindsey were concerned, the name you'd made for yourself in New York their veritable cash cow. "Yeah," you'd yawned as if she'd awakened you six hours earlier. "I need a few more days, but they'll be ready in time for the opening. It's the 15th, right?"

"Yes, Justin, it's the 15th. I've got the framers coming out there on the 10th, though. That's okay, isn't it?"

Yawning again, you'd squinted at the clock above the breakfast nook. "Um, it's 11:20. How long does that give me?" Fucking with her had become somewhat of a game. You were loading your plate into the dishwasher when you heard her sigh.

"A week. It gives you a week. Tell me now if I should reschedule the opening."

"Relax, Lindsey," you'd laughed. "I'll be finished in time. Are you still using Thomas Brothers Framing?" Adam Thomas was the owner of one stellar ass, not to mention his remarkable deep throating skills, both of which you and Brian had enjoyed together on more than one occasion.

Setting your coffee down on the work table, you survey the four pieces with their looming deadline in mind. You'll handily meet it, you smile to yourself. You might even throw in a fifth as a surprise. Never hurts to up the ante.

. . .

"Careful, honey. Put this arm over here." Your mom arranges you on your dad's roomy easy chair and places the cushions under your elbows, laying your baby sister in your lap. Reaching for the camera, her terribly fat stomach is mostly gone, leaving a much smaller lump in its place. You're happy because she's happy, not quite understanding what's so nice about the crying mess in your hands.

"She's screaming again. Why can't she be quiet?"

"Here. Let's see if she wants her pacifier." Turning off the shrieks for a few minutes, your mother snaps a roll of film before she takes the tiny bundle back and feeds her. "Are you going to draw a picture of Baby Molly?" she asks when you kneel down at the coffee table with the new drawing paper and pack of colored pencils she'd bought you.

"What for?" Sometimes your mom had the craziest ideas.

. . .

"It smells great in here. Thanks again for inviting me." Meg's apartment definitely has a 'lived in' look, you think, the homey feel of macrame hanging plant holders, lava lamps, and other vestiges straight out of the 70's rather comforting when you step inside.

"You looked hungry," she jokes. "It's all ready. I was just going to open a bottle of red. Would you like a glass?"

A thousand warning flags spring up before your eyes as she starts for the kitchen, an instant replay of overexposed skin the brightest of the bunch. "Well . . . maybe just one," you shrug, not wanting to come off as rude. You have somewhere to go this time if things get out of control.

"Go ahead and sit down." She busies herself with the burgundy and ladles up two bowlfuls of piping stew, your eyes bugging out of your head when you see the magazines scattered on the table in front of you.

"You read Art Forum?!"

"Sure. Doesn't everyone have a subscription to the most prestigious publication in the field?" Tossing them onto the sofa, she makes a place for the bowls and wine glasses, settling into the other chair.

"Thanks," you say, smiling when you dig in. Wondering just how much information she'd had on you when she'd made the reference to the bygone East Village art scene, you begin to put two and two together. "So, um, do you have like every issue?"

Peering at you over the rim of her glass, she sips her wine slowly. "If you're asking whether or not I've read the review Simon wrote about you, the answer's who hasn't? Considering all the buzz it's created in the art department here at NYU, I'm surprised you've taken this long to hit the Big Apple." She casts you a sidelong glance, grinning at your dropped jaw. "You're very humble, Justin. With a write-up like that, I was expecting a little attitude."

"Simon Caswell? You know him?" You have to wipe the sneer from your face with a napkin, glad that you didn't nix the alcohol when you had the chance. Lifting your glass, you take a hearty swig. "You know he's a cunt, right?" slips out unchecked.

Peals of robust laughter indicate her agreement. "Come on! Tell me what you really think! It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Taylor!" Thrusting her arm out across the table, she shakes your hand, nodding as you howl right along with her.

"I'm sorry to sound so crude, but his lecherous manner -"

"Is well known," she jumps in. "Simon has a harem of young men at his beck and call. His stable of handsome blonds is impressive. I could tell you're his type the minute I saw you last night. I'm sure he'd love to add you to the fold."

Leaving your fork in your bowl, it's time to glean more pieces to this puzzle. "How do you know him anyway? NYU art department? What exactly do you do, Meg?"

"I work at the Grey Art Gallery," she says, holding the bottle of burgundy out toward you. She sets it back down when you tell her you're fine. "I've been the director's personal secretary for years. We've gotten to know Simon from the guest lectures he presents at the gallery each year to the art department's senior class."

"The Grey Gallery?" Your head is swimming. "I've always wanted to visit NYU's fine arts museums. Grey has the largest collection, I think. Something like six thousand objects? I can't believe you work there!"

"Neither can I at times. It's been the guardian of NYU's collection since 1958, and I have the opportunity to admire the famous works every day. I just lucked out," she laughs again. "My art pretty much sucks, but my art degree came in handy for something!"

Raising your eyebrows as she rapidly swills the last of her wine and pours herself another, you can just imagine her stash making an appearance from some quaint hiding place any time now. But that's not what causes you to visibly wince.

"Of course, with the combination of your talent AND degree from PIFA, the art world is your oyster, isn't it?"

. . .

"THERE ARE PAINTERS WHO TRANSFORM THE SUN INTO A YELLOW SPOT, BUT THERE ARE OTHERS WHO, THANKS TO THEIR ART AND INTELLIGENCE, TRANSFORM A YELLOW SPOT INTO THE SUN." - PABLO PICASSO

"Hey, Sunshine! Guess what your partner brought you!" You're sitting on your bedroom terrace, a simple sketchpad and pencil at your fingertips when he gets home and scours the mansion looking for you. "Justin?"

"Up here with the sunset," is all you have to call out, Brian emerging through the French doors to join you soon after. "Hey." You look up as he leans over, your lips eagerly meeting his.

"Hey, yourself." Throwing his jacket and tie back inside on the bed, he rolls up his shirtsleeves and slides onto the chaise lounge beside you. "You okay?"

"Not really." You hear him draw in a long, anxiety-ridden breath as he slips an arm around your shoulders.

"Justin, I -"

"I need pink and gold," you go on. "This isn't gonna cut it." Holding up the stub of graphite you're working with, you repress an impish grin, cherishing the way he studies the horizon, wanting to see what you see.

"How many sunsets have you painted in your lifetime? All of them pink and gold . . . and orange and yellow and lavender. I've personally seen a hundred and sixty-two."

"But none of them were this one." Your head dips to rest on his chest. "So what'd you bring me? And I hope it's Rocky Road this time."

"Butter Pecan. Sorry."

Your jeans and tee shirt litter the terrace floor when Brian comes back upstairs with the pint of ice cream and two spoons. "Care to relive our wild and adventurous youth?" Pointing over at his chaise lounge, you open the carton and set the lid and the utensil you won't be needing on the low table between the chairs.

His clothes join yours in a matter of seconds, the magical smile on his face rivaling your own. "You're not seventeen anymore, Sunshine. Sure you can still fold yourself into a pretzel like that?"

"Lie down. Let's find out." Straddling his thighs, dusk descends as you share spoonfuls of Butter Pecan and sensual kisses, his appreciation abundantly clear when twelve years haven't diminished your ability to contort your body into a pleasure-giving vessel in the least.

Afterward, he places his hands under your armpits and drags your torso up until it's flush with his, clamping his arms around your back and holding you fast. Kissing you deeply, he just can't shake his thoughts. "Are you gonna talk to me yet, Justin?"

"Brian . . ." Closing your eyes, the sound of his beating heart fills your ears. "Don't do this. Not tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER THREE

"Come on, Justin! You've been skirting the issue for days!" Your husband just won't take the hint that you don't want to talk about it as he follows you into the laundry room, a fierce look of determination plastered all over his face. "Have you forgotten about reading me the riot act all those years ago for shutting you out? And now you're doing the same thing to me!"

"Brian, please. I can think of so many other ways to spend our Saturday." Throwing a load of paint rags into the washer, you measure the detergent and try your damnedest to get him to back off. "Do we have to do this now?"

"When would you like to do it?" You see that he's blocked the doorway and folded his arms in front of his chest.

"Never?" Setting the water temperature on cold, you push the appropriate buttons, his lean frame becoming an immovable barrier when you attempt to inch your way to freedom. You're left with no choice but to exhale loudly in aggravation. "This is nothing like that," you argue, meeting his dogged stare. "I don't have cancer, and I'm not afraid you're going to leave me. I'm not doing the same thing to you."

"No? You're not trying to handle this on your own?"

Maybe you haven't been the most forthcoming in recent weeks, you fess up privately, but it's not because you want to hurt or deceive him. You think it's more about self-preservation than anything else.

"I just want to know what's going on up there," he tries again. Placing a hand on your shoulder, his stance softens. "Why you lock yourself in your studio during the middle of the night and slip back into bed hours later as if you'd never been gone."

"Not . . . every night . . ." you stall, diverting your gaze to the floor when he reels you in with his other hand on the small of your back.

"You really freaked me out that time I found you sobbing."

Sensing your resolve weakening, you weave yourself around him, safe in his arms. He may have a point, you concede, visions of stirring Debbie's chicken soup and a pigheaded partner who'd rather throw you out of his life than come clean floating around in the back of your mind. "I'm sorry, Brian. I don't mean to shut you out. I . . . it's . . . it's hard to talk about. But . . ." Taking his hand, you lead him across the service porch to the back stairs that run all three flights up to the attic. "A picture's worth a thousand words."

. . .

". . . And lastly, our Young Artist of the Month is a gifted third grader in Mrs. Martin's class: Justin Taylor. In addition to this certificate of achievement, Justin will receive a coupon for a free Happy Meal, redeemable at any participating McDonald's restaurant in the greater Pittsburgh area." Calling you up to claim your prizes, the principal of your elementary school hands them over during the mid-morning awards assembly and then joins in the polite applause of parents and students alike as it fills the multi-purpose room. More impressed with the thought of winning a Happy Meal than the actual art accolade, you break into an ear-to-ear grin, waving to your dad as he stands in the aisle filming you with the newest state-of-the-art video camera Taylor Electronics has to offer.

"Do you think they'll give me an ice cream cone, too?" you ask your mom when the award winners are permitted to mingle with their families for a few minutes while the teachers line their students up for the trip back to class.

"I don't know, honey," she laughs. "We'll have to see. I wonder what Daddy's talking to your P.E. teacher about."

Turning around, you see him carrying on a long conversation with Mr. Knowles as he packs the camera back into its case. At eight years old, you're not oblivious to the fact that your dad would have liked it more if you'd just become your school's Young Sportsman of the Month instead.

. . .

"Yeah, I'm finding my way around a little better now," you brag to Daph on your cell, heading from your room to the kitchen for a soda. "I hung out in Tompkins Square Park all morning. That place is amazing. How come you never told me about it before?" Mouthing 'Hi' to Josh as he slaps an assortment of cold cuts between slices of wheat bread, you reach into your side of the fridge and listen to her rattle off news from home. "So . . . have you seen Brian lately?" you ask at the first lull in the conversation. "God, Daphne! No, we haven't broken up! It's just . . . different now. We're gonna work this long-distance thing out." Concluding it might be time for your own lunch when you eye your roommate and his jumbo sandwich, you tell Daph you'll talk to her soon. "Josh? Um, he's right here. Sure." You step over to the dinette set and hold your phone out toward him when she asks if she can yak at him for awhile.

You can't be accused of eavesdropping when you scan through the groceries you'd bought at the market, Josh sitting a mere ten feet from you as he sweet-talks his way through a ten minute gabfest with her while Daphne giggles so loudly that even you can hear it.

"Hey, I'm glad I don't have any classes today," he tells you when he ends the call. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Yeah?" you grin. You're happy for them, even though it's a bit odd that Josh is the one who's about to spill what's brewing between he and Daph and not your best friend.

Washing a big bite down with half a glass of milk, he gets right to it. "I'm sure you can tell she's got a problem. Never met a drop of booze she didn't like. Beer, wine, you name it . . . she just doesn't know when to quit."

"What?!" Your forehead wrinkles up in confusion. "Daphne doesn't drink. Well, no more than the rest of us. She doesn't have a problem!"

"Not Daphne." He shakes his head. "I mean Aunt Meg."

"Oh! Jesus, I thought you . . . Um, well, I did watch her polish off a bottle of burgundy almost by herself when she had me over for dinner," you offer. "I only had one glass, but she kept refilling hers as we talked. And we talked for quite awhile."

Unfortunately, Josh is all too familiar with the scene you've described. "She insists it's nothing to worry about every time I bring it up." Sweeping a mound of paperwork with NYU's letterhead out of your way when you plop down at the table with your microwaved Cup o' Noodles, he opens up about his aunt's binge drinking - among other things. "She's totally embarrassed for getting so shitfaced the night she was over here waiting to meet you. That wasn't what she wanted to do at all. As soon as I let her know that Daphne's artist friend was going to be my new roommate and told her your name, she showed me the magazine article and said the art majors at school have been talking about you for weeks. Googling you and learning everything about you they can. Your story really enthuses them. If someone your age can garner such recognition, they feel there's hope for them also. I guess they identify with you or something. Aunt Meg couldn't believe you were really going to move in with me."

You're not exactly sure why you find yourself grimacing as he goes on. It could be because the mention of the review is connected to thoughts of the critic who wrote it, or it could have to do with the pressure you've put on yourself to succeed now that you've shown up in New York to fulfill your life's ambition. Learning from first Meg and now Josh that NYU's art department's been following your every move - identifying with you for Christ's sake! - is more than a little daunting. "I didn't . . . um, realize I'd, uh . . ." Reduced to a stammering machine, you scratch at your ear out of habit.

"Hell, yes, Justin! Your reputation precedes you!" he laughs good-naturedly. "If it makes you feel any better, the business school doesn't have a clue who you are. Except for me. And that's only because of my aunt. God, I hope I can convince her to check out some AA meetings." Sliding his chair back, he focuses on the forms he'd so casually swept out of your way, remembering something he's supposed to tell you just before he gets up to toss his sandwich plate and milk glass into the sink. "Aunt Meg said to give you these."

Skewing an eyebrow in curiosity, you look down as he slides them your way, NYU NEW STUDENT ENROLLMENT PACKET stamped on the top one.

. . .

"You can get all the pictures you want later, Jen. We have to leave now!" Your dad tries his best to hurry everyone into the car, your first Little League game set to start in less than an hour.

Your mom ignores his warning, encouraging you to hold up your mitt and smile for the camera. "But he looks so adorable in his Yankees uniform! Just one more!"

Rolling his eyes, your dad huffs and totes his toddler out the door to strap her into her car seat, the family outing to the neighborhood park and ball field getting off to a hectic start. "So are you ready to play, son?" he asks during the short drive, having secured all the information about the city league from your P.E. teacher. Signing you up at the beginning of the season, getting you to all the practices was half the fun as far as he was concerned, making friends with the other fathers in the bleachers and shouting out praise with them as you and your teammates learned the fundamentals of America's favorite pastime. "Just remember, you gotta throw the ball with your right hand. The one you eat and draw and write with. The other one has your mitt on it. Don't throw with that one." Looking into the rearview mirror, he makes certain you know the difference between your right and left.

"Okay," you nod, the promised pizza at Chuck E. Cheese's after the game pretty much all you can think of.

"Oh, Craig, lighten up. Little League is supposed to be fun for the boys." Your mom smiles at you when she reaches over the the seat to give your eighteen-month-old wailing sister a small toy out of her diaper bag.

Your coach is no fool, using you and Timmy Reynolds as bench warmers for better than three quarters of the game, only sending both of you in near the end because of some 'fairness to all players' guideline he's held to abide by. "Justin! Justin! What are you doing?" you hear him yell when the ball just happens to roll up to your feet in the outfield.

You really don't know what all the fuss is about, stooping to pick it up with your glove and deciding to hurl it back in to the pitcher with the same hand. Pausing to wriggle out of your mitt just feels like the right thing to do since you can throw so much better without the awkward thing.

"What?!" your highly irritated coach screams to the opposing team's coach as three pint-sized Kansas City Royals slide across home plate. "You've never seen an ambidextrous kid before?!"

. . .

"I FOUND I COULD SAY THINGS WITH COLOR AND SHAPES THAT I COULDN'T SAY ANY OTHER WAY- THINGS I HAD NO WORDS FOR." - GEORGIA O'KEEFE

"The framers will be here on Monday. Maybe you can manage to, uh, take the day off?" Shooting your husband a sly smile, you catch him sporting a devilish expression of his own as you stand together in front of the five large paintings that will attract Sidney Bloom's buyers to your show faster than he and Lindsey can schmooze them into opening their checkbooks.

"Monday, hmm." Brian squints off into the distance, playfully consulting his jam-packed calendar. "Sounds like a great day for an orgy to me!" Kissing the side of your face, he goes back to admiring the finished pieces propped along the wall, deliberately extending the lighthearted moment. "These are beautiful, Justin."

Realizing what he's doing, you're grateful for his ability to read you like a book, both of you keenly aware that now that you've towed him up here, you're not quite sure how to begin. "Brian, I . . . Maybe we should just . . ."

"Although they weren't covered while you worked on them," he presses tactfully. "It's that one, isn't it?" Indicating the easel in the corner near the window with a nod of his head, he doesn't break eye contact with you, reaching out for your hand and squeezing it in his.

You release a halting breath, clearly out of your comfort zone. "I don't even know why I started it. Sometimes something takes a hold of me, and it doesn't let go until I mix it and dip my brush in it and splatter it into life. It's like I don't even have a choice, you know?"

"I get it. It's just that the emotional tailspin you fall into when you barricade yourself in here at night worries me. What the hell can it be that casts such a spell on you?"

He's hit upon the very question you ask daily. A question to which you've given up all hope of finding an answer. Tentatively extending an upturned palm toward the corner, you gnaw on your bottom lip. "You won't be satisfied until you see for yourself, so . . ."

"Justin-"

"Go ahead," you cut him off, bringing your clasped-together fingers up to your mouth and kissing his before turning him loose. "Just don't expect me to hold your hand. I'm not gonna paint today, and I don't feel like getting sucked into the black hole on this perfectly nice morning." You're determined to fight the darkness, burying yourself in taking a mental inventory of pigment jars on the shelf above the sink. With your back turned, you dare to envision a best-case scenario where your partner quietly investigates and leaves it at that. But - you know him. You're practically awaiting the gasp that escapes him when you can tell he's lifted the sheet and gotten an eyeful.

"Jesus Christ! Justin, this is . . ."

"Gruesome? Depressing? Crazy making? Take your pick." Rearranging the cans of solvent for no earthly reason, you putter around while he takes in the sight, hearing him mumble an occasional profane phrase as he studies its disturbing images and subtle nuances alike.

Shrouding the canvas once again, Brian makes his way across the studio, his arms encircling you from behind. "That asshole never paid for what he did to you. To . . . us." He nuzzles your neck, his voice breaking, barely a whisper.

"Now do you see why I don't want to talk about it?" Sighing audibly, there's no disputing a layer's been peeled from you. Waves of relief ripple through your body from the inside out, all the hedging and equivocating finally over. "I feel vulnerable enough when I'm working on it; I don't want to go there when I'm not working on it."

"Come here." Nudging you around to face him, he draws you closer, blinking away the moisture pooling on his eyelashes. "I thought we'd . . . dealt with the bashing and the trauma it caused. Closed that chapter of our lives. But . . . all these years later, the pain is still . . ." He wraps his arms around you, your husband's stature tilting down, resting on yours.

You're transported to a place in time when physical and psychological limitations ruled your days, utterly unable to walk through a crowd of strangers without clinging to his side. It's been more than a decade since you've needed to literally lean on him.

Maybe he needs to lean on you.


	5. Chapter 5

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER FOUR

You've known all along that locating a work space would be your biggest hurdle, traipsing around the East Village and its adjacent neighborhoods while you track down one disappointing lead after another in your search. Refusing to let the poor results dampen your spirits, you tuck the classifieds into your messenger bag and light a cigarette, soon flopping down on the bench at the nearest bus stop to regroup. Inhaling a long drag of tar and nicotine, your dreams of taking the art world by storm are just as vivid as they'd been when you hit town a week earlier.

You smile when the scheduled bus pulls up in front of you to let its passengers off, an ad for the Grey Art Gallery splashed across its side deciding your next move on the spot. Of all the artistic riches New York City has to offer, this one's in your own backyard, its profusion of fine art just waiting to be explored. Pocketing the lighter still in your hand, you smile again when you find yourself in front of the building on Washington Square East after a short hike, awed from the instant you step inside.

"I'm sorry. Meg's not working today," the girl at the information desk politely replies to your inquiry. "She called in sick. Again." Gathering that you've never been there before when you scan through a few brochures on display, she suggests you might want to take the guided tour that's slated to begin in ten minutes from the very spot where you're standing. "Billy's working the tours all this week," she tells you. "He's the best. Brings so much perspective from an artist's point of view. I think you'll really enjoy it."

Billy . . . Billy . . . You leaf through your mental file of well-known artists as you nod, not wanting to sound ignorant in your field of expertise because you can't come up with anyone by that name who could be working at the Grey. "Too bad Meg's not here today," you go back to the original conversation while you wait. "She wanted me to say hi when I finally made it in. She knows I've been anxious to see this place ever since I moved here." Idly thumbing through a pamphlet in your hand, you hope it's nothing serious. "I'll check on her when I get home," you think out loud.

"You live with Meg?"

"With her nephew. Her apartment's across the hall from ours." You don't know why this revelation causes the receptionist's eyebrows to arch halfway up into her forehead while she stares at you, seemingly memorizing your features.

"You're not . . . no, you couldn't be." Blinking twice, she adjusts her glasses, pausing slightly before she resumes. "Um, you're not . . . Justin Taylor by any chance, are you? O-my-god! You are!" she laughs when you confirm her suspicions. "I knew it! I'm Andrea, by the way."

Wrinkling one side of your face, you shrug the same shoulder. "How do you . . .?"

"Billy! You're not gonna believe this!" Spying him over your shoulder when he enters the lobby to collect his 4:00 guests, she hurriedly waves him over. "Guess who this is?"

You're quite sure Billy's no famous artist when you lay eyes on him, willing to wager both he and Andrea are no older than you. Shaking his eager hand when she discloses your identity, you're already forming a hunch as to why they're positively thrilled to be in your presence. "How do you guys know who I am?" you flat out ask, not entirely surprised by his comeback.

"Are you kidding? Your name's bandied about all the time in our circle. Everyone's read the review by now. So have you really uprooted yourself from Pittsburgh and come to New York to make it big?"

You find Billy's enthusiasm and genuine interest sincere, automatically downplaying the celebrity status he seems to think you inhabit. Starting off on the tour with a few other people who've arrived, you learn that he's one of a handful of seniors in NYU's art department to have been offered the prestigious position of guiding first-time patrons through the gallery. Inspired beyond measure by the smattering of works he points out, you know you'll be back several more times to roam on your own and take it all in, your walk home packed with fascinating concepts in desperate need of expression. On canvas. Soon. Which brings you back to square one as you think about the folded-up classifieds in your bag.

Your knocks on Meg's door go unanswered, but the malady that kept her from work is all too evident as soon as you step through yours. Sacked out on the sofa, her disheveled white sweater and turquoise calf-length gypsy skirt, along with the tangled tresses falling across her face, are dead giveaways.

"She's out cold," Josh says sadly from his recliner in front of the TV, shaking his head. "She must have gone on a bender this morning. Stumbled over here an hour ago to tell me something and never made it off the couch."

Dropping your things on the on the table, you eye his aunt with compassion. "I went to the gallery after checking out a bunch of studios that won't work for me. The receptionist . . . um, Andrea said she'd called in sick."

"Yeah, she does that a lot. I wish she'd admit she's got a problem and get some help."

"I've got a problem, okay? It's this splitting headache. Would one of you stop talking about me and get me an aspirin? Please?" Watching Meg rub the back of her neck in obvious pain, you see her gingerly sit up, careful not to rattle her brain with the movement. "How long have I been out?"

"Since five," Josh tells her. "I bet you feel like hell," he throws in, ignoring the piercing glare he gets in response.

"You know what, Meg?" you say on your way to the kitchen. "I think I can help. My grandmother used to swear by this concoction she mixed every time she had a hangover." Pouring as many of the called for ingredients as you can find into a large glass, you stir them vigorously with a spoon because you haven't seen a blender in any of the cabinets since you moved in. "Here. Drink this." Bouncing onto the sofa beside her, you mutter a quick "Sorry" when her body language indicates you're making her seasick.

"This reeks, Justin!" she cries when she gets a whiff. "I don't know whether I should thank you or smack you!" Draining the glass with a shudder and handing it back to you, she smooths out her clothes self-consciously and pushes strands of unruly hair behind her ears. "So no luck finding a studio, huh?"

"Not yet. I did like this one loft in SoHo . . . if I could have had it all to myself. Three other artists living there were looking to make some cash by renting out a corner. Not exactly what I had in mind. I'm gonna keep looking, though."

"Hmm . . . " Meg utters, the lone syllable loaded with wisdom you've yet to pick up on. "Didn't you give him the enrollment forms, Joshua?"

Flipping through every channel his basic cable service provides, he ultimately settles on ESPN. "Yeah. They were on the table."

"Well, but . . . I didn't come here to . . ." You avoid the fact that the papers in question are currently lining the bottom of the small trash basket in your room, choosing your words with discretion. "Thanks for thinking about me, but . . . I told you what happened. School and I just don't get along."

"Right. You told me about you and your partner thwarting that homophobic politician. An admirable feat. But don't you think the unique circumstances that led to your expulsion from PIFA shouldn't color your outlook on universities in general?"

Fuck! You can't believe your alcoholic grandmother's elixir works this quickly, Meg clearly back among the land of the living. "I . . . haven't really thought about it," you say truthfully.

"You should."

"I know how to paint. I don't mean to sound arrogant, but what good will going back to school do me now?"

"Ahhh." Another lone syllable. She understands that boys your age do best when they figure things out for themselves. "It's true you might not necessarily need more education to get where you're going, but what is it that you do need? Right now."

You almost think you're cruising for a lecture, and then the light bulb flickers on, both of you dissolving into laughter as you blurt out, "Studio space!" You see that your sudden burst of genius isn't lost on Josh when he tears himself away from Sports Center long enough to twist his head around and join in. "I'd have all the space I need if I went back to school," your logic finally kicks in. "But . . . I don't know . . . "

"Free space!" she reminds you. "The seniors practically have the run of the art department. Come and go as they please . . . work on anything they want . . . didn't you say you were only a couple of credits shy of graduating when the shit hit the fan in Pittsburgh?"

"Well, I'd had two years done when the Stockwell thing blew up. Brian was always trying to talk me into going back. He even cheated on a bet one time so I'd have to enroll again. Then I got another year done before I went out to Hollywood to work on the movie."

"So you could waltz right into the senior class here at NYU. That would solve your immediate problem with working space, but the other benefits are nothing to scoff at - the networking, the connections, the exposure. It's a nurturing environment, designed to launch young artists into the art world to start their careers. In your case, you may not need a degree from NYU, but working toward it could be your ticket to success."

"Jesus! You better shut up. I'm just about to take you seriously!"

Feeling around under the sofa for her shoes, she's ready to make it back to her own apartment, proud of herself for steering you in the right direction. "What was it Simon wrote? New York is waiting to be conquered? Good artsy-fartsy prose that his editors love, but the real world doesn't work that way. You need a game plan. So where're those forms?"

You're pretty sure they're crusted with Popsicle juice, the wrappers and sticks permanently bonding to them by now. You're also pretty sure you've got a game plan. "Meg?" you grin, your future shining brighter by the second. "Everyone knows you apply online!"

. . .

Restlessly stirring, you gradually awaken with your skin on fire and a drawerful of steak knives slicing up the back of your throat, tossing and turning until every last blanket on your bed slides to the floor. The rasp in your voice is your mom's first clue that something's wrong when she peeks through the door to check if you're up and getting ready for school.

"Oh, honey!" she cries, rushing in and pressing her palm to your forehead. "You're burning up!"

"It hurts when I swallow," you squeak, your matted hair dripping with sweat. You don't even mention the pain in your head because it hurts when you talk, too.

Notifying the nurse in your pediatrician's office of your 103-degree temperature she'd just taken with her trusty ear thermometer, your mom tells her you'll be there within the hour and bundles you up in the dead of winter for the trip to Dr. Holman's. Diagnosing a raging case of tonsillitis, his injection of penicillin into your preadolescent butt cheek stings like nobody's business, but you're too big now to cry when you get a shot.

Two hours later, a violent reaction to the antibiotic lands you back in the examining room, scratching yourself raw with the eruption of angry red hives on your neck and arms. "Throw out the penicillin pills I prescribed," the doctor advises your mom, "and buy an over-the-counter package of Jr. Tylenol meltaway chewable tablets. They'll relieve the sore throat and headache and temporarily reduce the fever."

You wonder why he seems intent on killing you, the grape punch-flavored tabs causing more misery that afternoon than you'd suffered in the morning, especially when the teaspoonful of codeine-laced cough syrup he recommended starts to kick in. Spending the rest of the day on the toilet with simultaneous diarrhea and uncontrollable vomiting, you're ready to give up, your ten-year-old body unable to withstand much more.

"So what'd Dr. Holman say?" your extremely concerned dad needs to know when he gets home from work, having waited impatiently while the physician's answering service found him at the most expensive restaurant in the city and patched him through to your frantic mom on the phone.

Thoroughly at her wits' end, she considers calling her bank and putting a stop payment on the checks she'd written that day to cover the co-pays for both visits. "He said Justin must be really allergic to a lot of drugs."

. . .

"I NEVER PAINT DREAMS OR NIGHTMARES. I PAINT MY OWN REALITY." - FRIDA KAHLO

"You seem distracted, Justin. Are you okay?" Lindsey's angular, puzzled face is lined with concern. She hopes you snap out of whatever it is she sees before long, her buyers never failing to loosen up the purse strings after a glass or two of white wine and an amiable chat with their favorite artist. "You guys usually arrive much earlier than this."

Your husband draws you into his side even closer, shooting the mother of his son a pointed warning. "Justin's just fine. He's fabulous, all right?" Nuzzling the side of your jaw, your five o'clock shadow tickles his lips. "Don't you have a painting to straighten? A bouquet to arrange? Perhaps an hors d'oeuvre to prepare?"

"Oh, Brian!" she huffs. "Well, I guess I'll leave you alone for awhile, Justin. Tonight's gonna be great!" she tacks on, giving you a quick hug before she flits off to find Sidney.

"Thanks." Squeezing his hand, you're grateful he knows when to run interference for you. "I need to -"

"Want some company this time?"

"Sure." Your preshow ritual hasn't changed in seven years, Lindsey and Sidney having learned to keep their distance until it's finished. Brian knows the drill, too, having observed from a seat in the corner on countless occasions, quietly rising to buffer interruptions away from you when needed. Now he lingers with you in front of the first piece that hangs on the Bloom Gallery's west wall, understanding it'll be anywhere from five to ten minutes before you move on to the next as you mull over what you'll say about it when asked by the gallery's knowledgeable clientele. He likes to claim you're saying good-bye to your works of art, but he gets that it's so much more than that.

You can't help thinking how right it feels to have him go through the process with you tonight, loving him for standing beside you and keeping mum for however long it takes. By the time you've meditated on the last piece, you've not only composed your remarks, but you've also wrapped your brain around the events that had gone down earlier in the day, the thoughts inevitably creeping into the silence. You didn't mind their invasion, the story of recovering your long lost memories certain to preoccupy your mind for days to come.

Something inexplicable had forced you out of bed that morning to shower with your partner after your early morning fuck, compelling you to climb your way to the attic when he drove off at the ungodly hour of 7:30 a.m. You'd been bemused by the absence of your familiar dream, wondering what was pulling you in as you deftly mixed the color of optimism. Speeding through the portal into your subconscious, you'd thrown off the sheet and spattered the canvas, recreating the visions you saw and decoding their messages with ease. The tears had flowed as usual, fueling you as always, yet somehow something was different. You'd lashed out with your brush, furious streaks telling your tale, yet somehow there was light at the end of the tunnel. You'd recalled feeling cold and wet and blind and at sea, and yet somehow your ears were filled with strains of music. You hadn't known how or why, and maybe you never will, but an eleven-year void was suddenly erased.

You'd lost all track of time when he appeared in the open doorway, the abstract no-locks policy recently expanded to include your very real studio. "Justin," he'd whispered, approaching with care. "You've got to get ready . . . the opening . . ."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I told you," he'd smiled, happy to hear it was you and not the broken Justin who normally painted the thing in the corner he'd grown to abhor. "I said I'd be home early today. So we could get to the gallery."

"Your eyes. They don't lie, Brian." Turning away from the easel, you'd neared him, laughing when he insisted he told you he'd be back by four. "At my prom," you'd gone on. "I saw it in your eyes when we danced to that corny song. And later . . . when you leaned me against your Jeep and kissed me." You'd stood on tiptoe, slipping your hands to either side of his face as your lips met his. "Was it because I was only eighteen? A dumb, stupid kid? Is that why you waited four more years to tell me? And only then because a fucking bomb scared you shitless?"

Inching his fingers from the nape of your neck down to your ass, he'd pinched a handful of choice flesh, the wheels in his head spinning. "What the hell happened today? Did Daph come out and spend the afternoon with you or something?"

"I remember, Brian. All of it. I've been painting since you left, and . . ." Glancing once more at the canvas, you'd seen the gaps in your life reflected in your strokes, newly found memories attached to each one. "Look." You'd taken him by the hand, excited for him to see the monstrosity's transformation. "You loved me. It's all here. You loved me, didn't you?"

"Justin . . . " He'd groped for the words to convey what he felt when he focused on your lifeless body levitating above the blood-soaked pavement and then again while he stared at your tuxedoed forms dancing atop your grave. "This is . . ."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't go that far. It's still . . . fucking disturbing." Tilting his head, you'd felt him recoil when the centered jewel jumped out at him from its hiding place among the gore, his brain deciphering the hologram-like image with a start. "Justin . . . " he'd repeated, his own likeness peering back at him through the small pane of glass, only discernible when viewed from the perfect angle. Shifting his gaze, his line of sight had caught it just right. "The hospital . . . "

"Uh huh. I saw your face in the window so many times while I struggled in that bed . . . It's just been buried for so long. It always sounded like something that happened to someone else when you talked about showing up every night, but now . . . "

"Christ . . . It's been years. I thought . . . you'd never . . ."

"But I have. I remember everything now. It wasn't merely guilt over the bashing. You loved me . . . even back then." Weaving one hand around him, you'd reached for the sheet on the work table with the other, watching it flutter to the ground at your feet. "You fell in love with me on the night of my prom," you'd sighed as you lay with your husband and undressed, the sweet sound of him not denying it the last coherent notion to run through your veins.

"Are we ready to sell some fine art?" Lindsey inches back into the picture when she sees you and Brian lift flutes of pinot grigio from the caterer's tray, pleased that you've emerged from your cocoon just in time.

Your eye wanders to the front of the gallery, where Sidney's already greeting the usual suspects. Recognizing a few stuffed shirts and high society dames, you figure now's as good a time as any. "Bring 'em on!" you laugh, your husband's arm resting comfortably around your shoulders.


End file.
